


A Traveller’s Promise

by silurica



Series: Look to Love, Always [4]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Seeking Mr Eaten's Name (Fallen London)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silurica/pseuds/silurica
Summary: The frozen gate. The end of a chapter. A promise remembered.
Series: Look to Love, Always [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068755
Kudos: 2





	A Traveller’s Promise

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of this borrowed a lot of words from Fallen London and Sunless Sea both. I really, _really_ adored how the writer described the Avid Horizon.
> 
> I briefly considered not reposting this for that reason - these words aren't strictly mine - but rereading it, I remembered how it depicts an undiscardable part of Leonard's journey. And so it gets to stay with this note.

Two vast winged shapes guard a gate of something like resin, smooth but uneven. It is deep gant—the colour that remains when all other colours have been eaten. Ice crusts over the crack between its valves. Approach, and your breath freezes, falls tinkling in shards from the air. It would be utterly foolish to touch the thing.

A merciless wind blows from everywhere to everywhere. It passes without effort through his coat, his flesh, his lungs. The dock lies empty.

He gazes up. This is the gate that he has longed to see, that he has desired to begin an end. Above, the stars burn unlike the false-stars on the roof of the Neath; they shall be the witnesses and the judges. He raises his fist, preparing himself. He repeats the sequence in his mind once more; seven into seven into seven into—

Another thought intruded out of nowhere. A promise about letters. The laughter every time he was reminded of it. The warm kindness he has received. Slowly, his hand lowers down as he recalls more. (What is wrong? You are acting odd.)

No. This is wrong. He turns his back on the gate to start looking. (No.) As if guided by an invisible hand, he fights his way through the thick snow, buffeted by the icy wind. (No.) Back to the dock, there was something, he knows it. (There was nothing there.) On a pillar, an authoritative hand has carved a message: IF YOU WISH TO RETURN TO LONDON - IF YOU SEEK THE FORGIVENESS OF THE EMPRESS - IF YOU WILL SACRIFICE ALL TO MAKE AMENDS - RECORD YOUR NAME AND CRIME.

(No. What are you doing?)

He traces the carving with a frozen finger. On the slips of papers below it are the names of murderers, traitors, hopeless villains who have fled into exile. They have made the icy pilgrimage here, to the end of the world, to prove their desperation to return home.

(What are you thinking? Isn’t this your purpose? Didn’t you work so hard to reach this point?)

There he records his name and confesses his crimes.

(Didn’t you sacrifice so much? What about your revenge? What about the injustice in the world? Have you forgotten it all?)

And he waits.

(You are a coward. A coward! So be it, then. I was never here.)

“That’s enough, Millicent,” says the young man, but when he looks, there is only the frozen desert of Avid Horizon and the gate untouched.

…

Back in London, there is a house next to the Stolen River that is always filled with the caws and singing of ravens, and occasionally the barking of a hound. Or that is how it usually is, as now the house is quiet; the animals have noticed the dreary air between their owners since they read a certain letter. That letter told them about his name, his origin, and his reasons behind everything. Now it is time for dinner, but one of the chairs has remained empty for the last few days.

When they least expect it, they hear knocks on their door; seven times, a peculiar rhythm. Only him would knock like that. The lady of the house rushes to open it, and there he stands, shaking, his skin paler than ever. “Madam, I-I was there. The Avid Horizon. The gate—the gate was right in front of me. But I remembered—I—”

“Leonard!” From behind the woman, her husband comes rushing and pulls the young man into a tight embrace. “Thank God you are still alive.” He says. Alive. The word echoes in the young man’s ears. He cannot see the elderly man’s face, but he can hear his voice trembling.

The woman merely watches the two for a minute, noticing how the young man does not make any attempt of struggle for once. She crosses her arms and asks, “So how was it? What did you remember?”

“Darling,” Her husband says as he lets the young man go, “Why must you be so cold? Keep your questions for later.”

“What? I’m just curious.”

“I remembered—” The young man opened his mouth. He looks as if he was hesitating at first, shifting his weight to one foot and one hand holding the other arm, but at the end admits with a quiet voice, “I remembered my promise to send you letters from NORTH. I remembered I have a home and someone will be waiting.”

Those words bring a look of surprise to the couple. There is a strange silence between them, while the young man is too timid to say anything more, uncharacteristically so. The first to break the silence was the woman. “One more question.”

“Oh, really, darling? Really?” The man shakes his head at his wife’s apparent lack of delicacy.

“We’ve read your letter.” She continues on regardless. “What should we call you from now on? Should we call you by your real name?”

This time it was the young man who was taken aback. When he has collected his thoughts, he answers, “I’m Leonard. Just Leonard.”

She smiles with open arms. There is brimming warmth in her voice when she says, “Welcome home, Leo.”


End file.
